


「 the name of the tree 」

by ashforge



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bond Dialogue, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/F, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14902277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashforge/pseuds/ashforge
Summary: not knowing the name of the tree,i stood in the floodof its sweet scent.matsuo basho (1644–1694)





	「 the name of the tree 」

[…]

She dreamed of battle from her sweat sodden futon. She dreamed of war and violence. She pretended the taste of copper in her mouth was someone elses. That she still had the strength to lift her sword, clutched as tight as she could muster in her palm. She dreamt that Kondo would come in, later in the day, and force her to eat. That his head wasn’t sitting somewhere, decomposing in the sunlight. Okita dreamed that she would wake up the next day, healthy again, so that she could put on her haori and take vengeance on his foes.

She wished she could lift her sword, at least. Just enough to puncture her belly. Enough to die like a warrior, like a killer, but the strength escaped her. Her sister left with her husband when the Shinchogumi moved to Kyoto. In Edo, in an empty house, Okita counted the lines on the wood. Doctors visited occasionally, but they had become less frequent. Okita knew why.

She wished she could lift her sword, at least. Just enough to puncture her belly.

♦

It was becoming somewhat normal to dream of being someone else. Ritsuka had them frequently – strands of memories belonging to the Servants in her repertoire. She brought her hands to her face, letting out a hopeless sob. More often than not, it was painful. Heroes were marked by their most miserable experiences. Her eyes were not even clear from sleep, but they stung so painfully of tears. It wasn’t fair – she felt a fierce resentment that was not even hers. It wasn’t fair that everyone else got to fight to their deaths.

With her eyes red and swollen, she pulled herself together. She had no reason to feel so defensive. She had no reason to feel such anguish. It was a piece of Okita that had latched onto her. A piece that Saber clearly was able to overcome. It still hurt. Her eye sockets were tender as she quietly walked down the hallway. It was too early for most Servants, and too late for the others that were early birds.

Okita Souji, despite her own condition, was something of a busy body though. She didn’t like the feeling of having nothing to do. Before that second, Ritsuka thought nothing of it. A lot of Servants were active, and liked to keep busy. But there was a melancholy to Okita’s energy. That she had spent so long doing nothing – being unable to do anything, really – that it left her feeling miserable. In an empty recreation room, she had set up something like a dojo. There were soft mats on the floor, and bamboo swords neatly lined against the wall.

Ritsuka joined the practice in the morning before, but it was just to keep her body active. Alone in the room, she watched the swordsman at work. Her movements were precise, unhindered by excess. The thrusts were faster than the eye, puncturing the dummy even with a flat tip. Sweat glimmered on her forehead, and it was clear she had been at it for awhile. Even though her stamina was so questionable, she worked herself so thoroughly.

“Wow, you make it look so easy,” Ritsuka praised, leaning against the frame of the door. “As expected of a genius swordsman, I suppose.”

Her thrust snapped the support that held the training dummy up causing it to clatter to the floor. Okita stared at it on the floor for a moment, and the room filled with the sound of her panting. She readjusted her grip on the handle of the shinai and turned her head to look at Ritsuka. Something about Okita’s expression, heated from the exercise, left butterflies in her gut.

With a glance at the shinai in her hand, Okita smiled wistfully. “A genius…swordsman?” She repeated thoughtfully. Her eyes didn’t leave the weapon but she tilted it at different angles as she thought. “Ha – h, that was never my intent. What matters is your fighting spirit.” Finally, her eyes shifted to Ritsuka. Her smile had taken a more mischievous curl.

“If your sword or sheath breaks – even if you’re unarmed.” In seconds, she had closed the distance, the shaft of the shinai rested against the side of Ritsuka’s neck. “No one waits for you on the battlefield, Master. What matters is your spirit. Will you fight even if you’re going to die?”

The bamboo felt hot on Ritsuka’s skin, but even hotter was Okita’s stare. It should’ve looked flawless. But Ritsuka couldn’t help but notice how sad it was. She wondered how often Okita said that to herself. They held that position for what felt like ages before Saber withdrew.

“Do you want to join me, Master?” Okita turned away from her, rolling her shoulder. “I was jukutou at the Shinsengumi. I’ll teach you Tennen Rishin Ryū. I think Kondo would like that.”

[…]

Okita liked killing as much as the next guy. There was a concrete pleasure in slicing open your enemy. There was a sense of fulfillment to gutting someone, showing superiority. She didn’t know when she began to think like that. When fighting and killing had become synonymous with gratification. One day, she was a teacher of the sword. The next, she sought after her next victim no differently than a wolf.

That was why – she didn’t feel anything when they killed him. The difference between wolves and dogs was that wolves knew how to listen to superiors. Serizawa was just a dog. Always killing people when he felt like it. Always starting problems when it was useful to him. Killing foes that meant nothing to his teeth. A dog had no place among wolves. She didn’t know the specifics of it, of course. That was among Kondo, Hijikata and Yamanami. She was just there, because Kondo said kill someone.

When Kondo said kill, Okita asked how many.

She didn’t feel anything when he died. Regret, maybe, that they had to waste their teeth on dogs. Killing was only a pleasure when the person was worth killing. Otherwise, it just adds rust to your sword. He and his allies were worthless. Too cowardly to kill themselves, and too insignificant to waste energy. But Kondo said kill them. Kondo decided who lived or died.

♦♦

Resting her head in her palm, Okita stared at the blank sheet of paper.

She had never once attempted to pen down feelings more complex than executions or excursions. In her life, she could only remember writing letters formally or to her sister. Things like where to sortie or how the season had been. She had never felt the urge to romance one of the expensive geisha that would entertain the officers. She never felt the urge to romance one of yuujo that she had occasionally taken to bed.

Her finger drifted across the paper, forming characters ghosting across the surface. She had no idea what one would say in an intimate letter. When she was alive, it was appropriate to write poems. At least, that’s what she thought. It had been so long since Mitsu had explained to her the process. At that time, she was hoping another officer would marry her. Rintarou had already taken the Okita name, she was free to find a husband to settle down with.

It was never quite so simple. Okita sighed softly, tapping her nail on the paper. “I never did have an interest in love affairs,” she mused to herself, as if laughing at her own failings. No, it was Hijikata who loved those sorts of things. This time a genuine laugh escaped her, thinking of his face as he would awake from a drunken evening with three different women.

They were nothing alike. But that’s what made his company so nice, she guessed. Okita wondered what he would have to say about her problem now. Probably – ‘why don’t you just fuck her’? He was as simple as men got when it came to baser urges. Okita furrowed her brow, looking at the blank paper beneath her fingers.

She really had no experience with this. It was frustrating and exciting. Like a foe that she couldn’t beat, using a weapon and a style she had never seen. She took the pen, and dipped it in the well. The only thing to do when facing an enemy like that would be to fight.

Okita thought about her Master as she wrote. There was nothing but that to do, after all.

[…]

Whether or not they were going to burn Kyoto down – that didn’t really matter. Okita was long past caring about that sort of thing. There were enemies, so she was there. Kondo cared about the affair, and her blade was his. The sonnō jōi shishi would eventually claim that they were there to discuss how to rescue their ally from Hijikata, but they were awfully well armed for just that.

Kondo called for them to stand down, to turn themselves in. But that was pointless. They were samurai, after all, and if they turned themselves in – they would die ingloriously. Okita preferred it that way. Battle was what they lived for – killing was their worth. She would do what Kondo wanted, in any given situation, but she liked it better when it was simple. Execute every sonnō jōi shishi in the building, she was thankful for his decisions. Thankful that the bakufu gave them tasks that were simple to complete.

The lights went out immediately, and it was a brawl. The brilliant Shinsengumi haori stood out in the barest light, so it was easy to separate friend from foe. Ronin were entertaining to kill, because they would fight back. Their swords were swift and trained. They had killed people also, they had known the rush. Between two people who had lived to kill, it was not a butchering but a work of art.

Her body was drenched in their sweltering hot blood. It was so hard to breathe beneath the weight of it. The chain mail and the armor, the blood and the exertion. There were still so many more to kill, and her body felt so heavy. At what point did she collapse? Okita couldn’t remember. Just that she killed and killed until her body couldn’t move.

She couldn’t remember if it was important that she passed out. Was it the sickness? It was four years too early. Surely she wasn’t so sick then. The heat, maybe. Her mouth was full of copper, and the blood could not be cleaned from beneath her nails for days afterwards.

♦♦♦

Ritsuka had this dream before. That’s why it felt familiar. Okita heaved, her nails digging into the hilt of her sword. It was just her left, so she had to stay strong – even if she was not able to stand. She would choose to stand. Ritsuka could almost read her mind, as Okita’s unsteady gray eyes focused on an enemy that was no longer there. Her knees shook. The sickness would never leave her, so it had to be worse now than before. Ritsuka hesitated only for a minute and then grasped her wrist.

The reaction was immediate. Okita jerked, in a fighting frenzy, to defend herself. But she stopped short. Her face was burning red and sweating. Ritsuka remained firm, wordless, until Okita’s body relaxed. She almost dropped to the ground there, but Ritsuka supported her body. Not this time – Ritsuka repeated to herself, thinking of a time that she never experienced. Not like Ikedaya.

“Ah, I’m so much weaker than I remember,” Okita said after awhile, stumbling alongside Ritsuka as they sought refuge. She coughed deeply, wincing terribly at each heave. She wiped the blood onto her black obi, not noticing the smear left on her lips.

Settling down away from prying eyes, Ritsuka drew her fingers to Okita’s forehead. “You’re running a fever,” the Master replied, licking her thumb and rubbing the blood from Okita’s lips. “Hey, you’re protecting me. You made it this far. I have some water in my pack here.”

She fumbled at her pack, trying to pull out the bottle fast enough. Servants didn’t really need to eat or drink, but it helped in situations like this. The cool water would help. Okita stared at her as she popped the lid to the bottle open and offered it.

There was a moment before Okita gingerly took it. “You’re so nice, Master.” She said, bringing the bottle to her lips. “Being so friendly to a killer like me…”

Trailing off, Okita offered the bottle back. Despite the chaos going on just beyond their bubble, it was strangely quiet. Ritsuka reached out, and ran her fingers through Okita’s hair. Blood smeared and sweaty – she looked rather vulnerable. To her surprise, Saber shifted, reaching into her kimono to withdraw a neatly folded envelope.

“This is for you.” She said, shyly. “Please wait until I pass out to read it.”

[…]

Okita didn’t even know her father’s face. He died before she could have memory of it, leaving behind three daughters to his name. He must have had no faith in his own genes, because he adopted a son before he died and had his eldest daughter marry him. She never held it against him – but she wished she had met him once.

In replacement of that face, she had so many others. Kondo Shusuke was like her father. He was rough around the edges, but good hearted. He never minded that she joined his school, in boys clothes that did not quite fit her. Isami was like her brother, ten years her senior but always finding situations where he needed her help. Yamanami Keisuke. He was a brother too, someone she knew so well from the Shieikan. He left the Shinsengumi 1865 and with that choice, he was forced to seppuku.

She thought maybe that was the point where she stopped caring so much about life. Whether it was others or her own, people were bound to die anyway. The only life that mattered was Kondo. Even if it was under his rules that she watched Keisuke cut himself. That was the way of a warrior. He turned the blade before gnashing his teeth too loudly, and Okita brought her sword down on his neck.

She was glad it was her and not anyone else. At least one person in her life got the death they deserved. It was an inglorious age. People died of bullet wounds and spear thrusts. Cannon fire and artillery. Okita knew that the way of the sword died a long time ago with Nobunaga, but it felt so terribly unfair watching her comrades die without so much as looking at their killers.

Kondo, too, they wouldn’t even let him cut his stomach. They let his head rot on display. But he always acted with conviction. Okita couldn’t say the same for herself.

♦♦♦♦

They had not spoken about the letter since the incident. Everything continued as usual. Okita spent her time busy, either with keeping her body active or trying to keep out of Nobunaga’s net of trouble. Ritsuka did what she usually did. Work. Fight battles. Tried to keep out of Nobunaga’s net of trouble. It wasn’t like they never talked, in fact, they spoke all the time. Whenever they got the chance. But it was left unspoken.

Ritsuka didn’t know what to say. How to interpret the contents. Inside there was nothing but a poem. Okita’s handwriting was stilted, like there had been many times where the pen was lifted from the paper. As if she were trying to consider if she should write what she was writing. It was just one of the many poems by Matsuo Basho, she even credited him at the edge. Inherently, superficially, there was nothing unusual about the letter.

Her fingers brushed the dried ink, feeling a hotness to her cheeks. Something about it left her feeling breathless.

Not knowing the name of the tree,  
I stood in the flood  
of its sweet scent.

She felt frustrated and light by its ambiguity. There was nothing else written down, no clarification or anything else. It simply was. For what felt like the hundredth time, she traced each character with her fingers, trying to think of a way to bring it up in conversation. She could guess meanings, but each new thought only mounted her expectations. Ritsuka’s face reddened, and she lowered her head to the desk.

It was hard not to feel excitement.

“Ah, you read it,” Okita took the paper back the next morning, and sheepishly, she offered it back. “I suppose I should say something…”

Elation and dread balled in Ritsuka’s throat, and stiffly, she nodded. “It’s kind of vague,” she tried for a response that wasn’t leading. After all, it was very much vague.

Her words seem to act like weights, and Okita slouched a bit beneath their pressure. Thoughtlessly, she rung her hands together. “This is hard to say,” she said after a minute, laughing at herself a bit. “When I’m with you, Master – I feel at ease. But, it’s different,” Okita kept her eyes averted, as if looking at Ritsuka would make it harder to speak. “When I was with Kondo, or Yamanami – Hijikata even, it was never like this.”

With a sigh, her slouch improved. Like the words had set her free, she finally met Ritsuka’s eyes with a bashful smile. “I’m at ease, but my heart is beating so much. It’s weird, isn’t it?” Her nervous hands finally sought out Ritsuka’s, and she squeezed lightly – a meek tremble coursing through them. “I lived my whole life without ever knowing this feeling. Master, is this my heart, or is my fever acting up again?”

Ritsuka laughed, grasping Okita’s hands tightly.

[…]

The lines on the ceiling never changed, but it felt like they were mocking her. Every day, the Shinsengumi got farther and farther from her. Even Rintarou and Mitsu left – it was just her in the home that they had shared. Doctors came occasionally, but no one wasted their time on her. She ate when she felt like it. Drank the last of the sake a long time ago. Tried to muster the strength to pull her sword from its sheath. The fever made that too much work.

The pain was exhausting. It was worse than any battle wound. Worse than any bullet or artillery. It raked her body when she breathed. It drew blood from her stomach with every cough. The bruises wouldn’t fade, no matter how long she waited. Okita hated being sick. She hated it more than any Satsuma or Choshu bastard on that earth. It made her weak. Never in her life was she weak.

She tried to pull the sword free, but couldn’t muster the strength. The fever was making her delirious. She thought she had heard Kondo’s voice, just outside the door. But – she knew, it was too late for that. She wondered if she were healthy, would things had been different? Okita counted the lines in the wood, ignoring the voices of Kondo and Yamanami just out of earshot. Any day now, a doctor said his expression not even changing to show sympathy. You’ll end up just like them.

If only – Okita begged any gods watching over them. Yamanami died like a warrior. Kondo died acting the way he always did. Okita wasted away, stinking of bile and blood. Unable to do anything at all. Surely, she was getting what she deserved though. She wasn’t like any of the others. She just wanted an enemy to kill and a Master to serve. Okita never cared about life before, not even her own.

But – if there was kindness left in the universe for her…she’d like to be able to fight again.

♦♦♦♦♦

“Souji.”

The only ones who had ever said her name like that had been Kondo and her siblings. No, not even them. Ritsuka had a way of saying her name that made Souji feel hot. Her Master’s breath tickled her ear, making every word spoken between them even more private. As if the solitude of her room was not enough – and it wasn’t. Souji wanted no one else to hear how Ritsuka sounded like this.

In a tangle of sheets and blankets, they had started their affair without words. A sultry night every week or so, without limitations. Souji was no stranger to sex after all. The officers would take trips to Gion to have thrills. She wasn’t a regular, not like some of the officers, but she had been there before. She enjoyed the taste of women, but never so much as battle. Ritsuka invited her to her bed, and they would fuck for hours.

Sometimes, they would cling together. Remain in each others arms, while Souji tried to put a name to the sweet scent that overwhelmed her. Ritsuka was painfully patient with her feelings, even as Souji made use of her body. It was exclusive. Unspoken, but true. Souji wouldn’t smell anyone in Ritsuka’s sheets but herself. She had also stopped making visits to Nobunaga’s room. They didn’t need to say why they did this. They simply did.

“Souji,” Ritsuka sighed, holding her jaw in both hands as Saber undressed her. It didn’t matter how many times Souji saw, her body looked just as beautiful as the first time. As pure as the first touch. Souji leaned in, peppering kisses on her lips, earning a giggle. “You always blush when I say your name.”

For some reason, that was what made her hesitate – but only for a moment. How long had she known without having words to put to them? “That’s because – well, I’ve decided.” Souji replied, shrugging out of her kimono with Ritsuka’s assistance. “I am yours, Master – Ritsuka. Wherever you are,” She nuzzled her nose and lips against the crook of Ritsuka’s neck. “Even if it’s to the ends of the earth, the ends of the sea – even if this transient body ceases.”

Ghosting her hands along Ritsuka’s sides, as if worshiping every inch of her, Souji drew back to look her in the eyes. “Even to the gates of the underworld. Ritsuka – I will be with you.”

In no way did her declaration come with just words. Souji shifted, centering her weight over Ritsuka’s body so as to pin her down. She had never made such a fuss over a woman's body before. Not that they were objects to her but - Souji felt the pounding of her heart through her entire body. There was a uniqueness to this feeling. A flush of impatience colored Ritsuka from her cheeks to her breasts and Souji obliged her wordless need. Even the lightest touch earned a moan of satisfaction, and Ritsuka arched into her fingers like she were pulled by an unknown force.

Souji watched in awe, tracing characters of longing and admiration on her sensitive breasts. Words she never needed to know the stroke order of, yet now held profound depth. She punctuated it all with a squeeze and tug and Souji’s breath quickened as Ritsuka mewled and squirmed in raw pleasure.

“Souji, don't be such a tease,” Ritsuka laughed, her fingers snaking up Saber’s sides. Her nails formed faint red lines, and she raked patterns in seconds. “Come closer. Show me what you mean.”

As if bidden, Souji sank onto Ritsuka. In moments her mouth was open, tasting the saltines of Ritsuka's skin and marring it with reddening bruises. There was so much of Ritsuka that Souji had touched before, yet it never felt the same. Each whimpered breath, or gooseflesh patch sent tingles of lust and longing down below Souji’s stomach. Her lips parted, taking each tip of Ritsuka’s breasts in her mouth, suckling them as if starved.

Her hands, though, were not idle. Souji ran her palms downwards, catching handfuls of her Master’s modest rump. She was soft, pliable – so much unlike Souji’s own hard, muscular body – and she lifted Ritsuka’s hips. Her Master wriggled against the movement, breathless against the full power of her Servant. Knowing her though, Souji was sure, it was a gesture of impatience. The scent of her sex was answer enough.

Although patience was a virtue, not even Souji could be so cruel. Her teeth raked against Ritsuka’s skin, following an unseen path to her core. She drew back once her lips touched her curly pubic hair, allowing her tongue to finish the remaining distance. Souji hummed appreciatively, enjoying the scent and taste of her Master’s musk. Ritsuka’s fingers had slid from Souji’s sides to her head, and clawed her gently – urging.

It was too much to ignore, after all. Her mouth opened wider, pressing her tongue hard against Ritsuka’s soaked lips. Inside her grip, her Master’s body tightened and an almost weepy moan escaped her. Souji couldn’t help but feel powerful, her tongue reducing a now very skillful mage to weakness.

Ritsuka’s hands rubbed a rhythm on Souji’s head, petting her like a dog or a child. Encouraging her softly and gently, trading in the impatient nails for a new tactic to get what she want. It was almost frustrating, but Souji ran her tongue around Ritsuka’s clit despite herself. She sucked it gently, took her folds softly in her teeth. Teased her, sucked on her, lapped at her – Souji made love to her. Again and again.

Until her jaw was tired, and until her fingers were sore. Until Ritsuka drew her head up from between her legs and kissed her come clean of Souji’s lips.

“Tell me it in plain words too,” Ritsuka asked in kisses, “so I can hear it.”

And Souji whispered love to her until her lungs could not stand it.

**Author's Note:**

> i appear like an arrow in the dark!!! please enjoy the lesbians. [tumbr](http://ashforge.tumblr.com/)


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